


this is the wrong world

by hoard



Series: across the multiverse [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Westworld Fusion, Androids, First Meetings, Hurt/Comfort, In Media Res, M/M, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 14:11:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19907005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoard/pseuds/hoard
Summary: The man looks down at him, confused smile twitching at his lips, like he finds Draco funny. Not what Draco’s saying, exactly, but the whole concept of him.





	this is the wrong world

**Author's Note:**

  * For [milkandhoney](https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkandhoney/gifts).



Light breaks over the mountains to the east, sharp and blinding. Draco blinks himself awake and wonders if this’ll be the last time he’ll have to suffer through consciousness. He stopped feeling dehydrated the night before, his need for water leaving him just as his desire for food had. He hadn’t expected to survive the night, yet here he is, cursed again with another day of this hell. 

He leans back against the little dried up tree that he’d dragged himself to, eyes closed again. No leaves to provide him shade, just rough bark against the bare skin of his back, gentle and kind compared to the grit and pebbles digging into his thighs and worse, the hot baked ground burning his skin just as much as the sun is taking its toll on Draco’s front. 

Cool hands cup his cheeks all of a sudden, bringing Draco back to the present, to his body. It has to be his mind playing tricks on him. There’s no rescue coming for him, not out here. He squints his eyes open and sees one of the natives, skin so much more suited to the barren vastness Draco’s found himself abandoned to than Draco’s own pale visage. He opens his mouth to speak, to ask if this is real, but nothing comes out, just a sad, broken wheeze that has the native frowning. 

He brushes his thumbs over Draco’s skin one final time before pulling his hands away and standing up, walking away. Draco doesn’t have enough water inside him to cry, but his mind is still lucid enough for the emotions to swell up inside of him all the same, desperate and cloying. The man can’t leave him, not now. It was cruel for him to come to Draco at all, after Draco had finally made peace with himself, with the fact that he was going to die out here. 

A skin of water gets pressed to his lips, those kind fingers tipping Draco’s head up and back, as if the native thought that Draco might’ve forgotten how to drink. Draco swallows the water gratefully, careful not to let any of it spill from the sides of his mouth, though the man is careful as well, doling out measured sips so that Draco doesn’t drown himself. Or get sick and toss all of it right back up. 

Draco consumes about half of it before his stomach starts to cramp, his body suddenly remembering that it exists. That he has needs. Though now that he’s been brought back from the razors-edge between living and dying, he wishes didn’t, pain and discomfort coming back to him in waves. 

The man says something in his native language that Draco doesn’t understand. His voice is soft, calm, satisfying something inside Draco just as much as the water had done. He’s beautiful, face striking with the way its painted, body strong and compact, built of a true strength and not vainful hours put in at a gym. 

A hand is extended to Draco, and Draco has to use all the remaining strength in his body to reach out his trembling arm and take it. The man is careful as he pulls Draco up, letting Draco lean heavy against his chest, Draco’s arms coming over his shoulders, a facsimile of a hug. 

Together they undertake a gangly march back to the native’s horse. Somehow the man gets Draco up onto its back, scrambling up behind Draco quickly so that he can take hold of Draco’s hips to stop him from falling back down to the earth once they’ve finally got him there. 

The ride itself is too much for Draco, his body a solid mass of pain, crying out for rest, a hospital. He passes out.

When he wakes again it’s inside a tent. He’s turned towards the door, can make out the waning light of the sky; he must have slept the day away. There are furs at his back, soft, a warm comfort even against the fevered, sun-hot burn of his skin. 

The man enters the tent, eyes meeting Draco’s. He’s got two bowls in his hands, steady and perfectly balanced as he takes a seat near Draco’s head. He sets them down on the floor and gently lifts Draco’s head into his lap, propping him up. He reaches for one of the bowls. 

It’s carrying water, which he tips into Draco’s mouth, just as he’d done before. Draco wonders if this is the first time he’s awoken, or just the first that he remembers. He doesn’t feel as dehydrated as he had been, and surely what he had before wouldn’t be enough to get him to where he is now. 

Once he’s drained it, Draco licks his lips and manages to rasp out, “What — what’s your name?”

The man looks down at him, confused smile twitching at his lips, like he finds Draco funny. Not what Draco’s saying, exactly, but the whole concept of him. 

“Don’t laugh at me,” Draco says. He really must be doing better, if he’s able to whine again. 

Hands smooth across his forehead, pushing his fringe from his eyes. “Uŋžíŋča,” he says, and it doesn’t sound to Draco like a name. He looks at Draco as if they’ve met before, and a part of Draco feels the same, as if he remembers this man, though not with his mind. He resides in some other part of Draco — his heart. His soul, maybe. “Kikusya. Ya mi cante ki yu ha ya ye.”

**Author's Note:**

> lakota ; english
> 
>  _uŋžíŋča_ ; fledgling, young bird  
>  _kikusya_ ; remember  
>  _mi cante ki yu ha ya ye_ ; take my heart with you when you go.


End file.
